


Like Waking Up In A Fantasy

by Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer



Series: Prodigal Son One-Shots And Drabbles [3]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt, Episode: s02e06 Head Case, Feels, Gen, Head Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Malcolm Bright Gets a Hug, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Unconsciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:13:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29515830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer/pseuds/Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer
Summary: He felt misplaced, like a fish out of water. He couldn't shake that feeling of wrongness, the realization that he wasn't where he was supposed to be, that something bad was happening.
Series: Prodigal Son One-Shots And Drabbles [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2164734
Comments: 4
Kudos: 38





	Like Waking Up In A Fantasy

"And now everything's okay, isn't it?"

Everything colored in blue for a second, soft and warm and gentle, like the fantasy Malcolm knew this was. And yet none of that mattered as much right then; still buzzing with the leftover adrenaline that had blazed through his veins and struck him right down to his soul, still shaking off the protectiveness that had engulfed him, Malcolm found himself longing to sink into Martin's arms, and in response, that recently ever-frequent pinch of pain at the realization that he couldn't. Such a bittersweet desire somewhat tainted what Malcolm knew should have been a victory, and it almost was a victory - except nothing had changed, and Malcolm was still here.

He felt misplaced, like a fish out of water. He couldn't shake that feeling of wrongness, the realization that he wasn't where he was supposed to be, that something _bad_ was happening.

"Isn't it, my boy?" Martin pressed, an urgency in his gaze, even in spite of the smile on his face, a worry creasing his features that made Malcolm's heart twist. His throat squeezed shut tight for a second, leaving him breathless as his heart pounded, hard and heavy against his chest. Then he blinked, and the blue haze that had fallen across everything lifted, replaced with yellow. It was subtle, but it was there. And with it, Malcolm felt his mood lighten just a bit, strangely.

That feeling, that feeling - the feeling of wrongness, the feeling that he wasn't where he was supposed to be, that he stuck out, that he was the needle in the haystack, that _he_ was the problem, _he_ was what was wrong, different, out of place - it was a feeling he was too used to.

One that was usually so easily ignored.

"Yes," he finally managed to breathe, wide-eyed, "everything's fine."

It wasn't. Pain split through his head, one sharp crack after another. He was going to die.

Martin's face lit up, though worry still lingered, and pressed forward too suddenly for Malcolm to react. He hugged him, such force and desperation and relief beyond such a simple movement, a simple gesture, and Malcolm felt his breath leave him all at once as his father's arms wrapped around him, hugging him tightly, hugging him close, exhaling a relieved breath against his ear and pressing the side of his head against his son's as his fingers gripped tightly into his jacket. It hit him all at once, slamming into him full force; that feeling lingered for another second or two before it was replaced with warmth, and nothing but warmth, and a startling sense of security.

Everything was fine.

Everything was _fine_ here.

Malcolm hugged him back, the way he knew he could never do in the real world, always wanting, always longing, always staying perfectly safe and secure on his side of the red line.

There was no line. There was nothing. He was fine. He was-

Martin pulled back, a hand on the back of his neck, a gentle, steady grip. A touch, a gesture that had never failed to relax him time after time in the past - but when he looked up, lifted his gaze to the man in front of him, that feeling of wrongness returned almost completely at full force. That touch and that face didn't go together. Malcolm thought back to Claremont, where his monsters and demons always rested, where he could somehow always make himself believe that a place could be haunted - that a person could be haunted - because walking those halls, he could never quite shake such a feeling, the feeling of something dark tethered to his soul the moment he walked through the doors that he couldn't shake until long after he'd left again.

He thought back to Claremont, where a familiar face resided, a face that didn't belong there.

And that wasn't fine.

"Let's get you home, okay?" Martin said softly, squeezing the back of his neck. Malcolm took a breath and closed his eyes, managing nothing more than a slow, shaky nod, and for the most part, he simply allowed his father to lead the way, pulling him close against him as they left.

This fantasy couldn't give him _everything_ he wanted.

He thought of Jessica, happy and fulfilled, living her perfect life. Ainsley, with no repressed memories, no secret murders, no lies, no blood on her hands. Martin, the father he'd always…

(He thought of Gil, wrapped up in a cardigan, chained and locked away and crazy.)

Dani, the perfect relationship he'd never have. JT, the friend he'd never really make.

This fantasy had given him everything he wanted.

Everything except one thing.

And even for all of this… Malcolm wasn't willing to make that sacrifice.


End file.
